


I Walk Through the Valley

by antithestral



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCU
Genre: Batfamily (DCU), Gen, M/M, bruce wayne's a+ parenting skillz, clark is......immediately soft and in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25688071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: I walked out of a first-day screening of BvS in 2016, turned to friend, and said to her, "You know what would fix this movie?" And she's a good friend, so she said, "I don't know, babe. Whatwouldfix this movie?" And I said, "Dick Grayson."So this is that fic.In the fall a year after Black Zero, Bruce Wayne hunts the alien Kal-El, Clark Kent gets reassigned to the crime beat at work, and Detective Grayson joins an inter-agency task force that brings him to Metropolis — and to the attention of the Daily Planet.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent
Comments: 33
Kudos: 192
Collections: DC





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I remember walking out of the theatre in 2016 with such incredible clarity. It's actually a very stupid story. We were getting lunch at a PFChang's near the cinema and our order came late, and we missed the top? twenty minutes of the movie? because we lost track of time like the idiots we are. And it was— verboten! evil! a venial sin! to miss ANY part of a comic book movie! So we watched the whole thing, got out, bought the NEXT SHOWING'S TICKETS, and then watched the movie TWICE, in a SINGLE DAY. 
> 
> And after subjecting ourselves of like. six hours straight of zack snyder's oeuvre of filmmaking, I remember turning to my friend and telling her, "You know what would fix this movie?" And she's a good friend, so she said, "I don't know, babe. What _would_ fix this movie?" And I said, "Dick Grayson." And then we went to get very large very black coffees from Starbucks because that's what you do when you're twentysomething and tired and female.
> 
> So this is that fic.
> 
> I'm going to stick as close as I can (which, haha. Ain't a lot fam.) to the original style of storytelling, complete with overwrought religious imagery, and heavyhanded Catholic metaphor, and Kal-El as the second coming, and _everything._ I'm going to take myself very seriously, which I try very hard never to do, because it ain't fun up in here ::raps the side of my head::, and I'm going to keep writing until the ghost leaves me. Wish me luck.

i. Dick. 

Dick got to the diner fifteen minutes early, and found a newspaper kiosk across the road to linger near, buying a copy of the Planet and a cup of joe to carefully cup in his cold, cold hands. He watched the diner’s entrance without looking like it, scanning the headlines, sipping the burnt coffee, the bill of his cap low over his eyes.

Kent arrived with a couple minutes to spare, hands buried in his jacket pockets, head ducked against the wind. He strode into the diner and slid into the last empty booth, rubbing his hands together as he did, blowing into his cupped palms. 

Dick tried to keep the surprise off his face because — hot _damn,_ you know? Kent sure didn’t look like any newspaper reporter he’d ever met, and he’d met his fair share. He dropped some change into the kiosk’s tip jar, rolled the paper up under his arm, and, after downing the last bitter dregs of coffee and binning the empty cup, he jaywalked across the road, and into the diner.

*

“Do you mind if I record this?”

“Go ahead.”

“Sunday, October 23rd, 1:45 pm, Lowe’s Diner. Interviewing Detective Richard Grayson, Bludhaven PD, on the Baresi RICO case.” Kent looked up, an apologetic smile on his — astonishingly handsome — face. “Sorry. Had to get that out of the way.”

Dick shrugged. “Not a problem, Mr. Kent.”

Kent smiled again. “I understand you’re acting as the liaison between the Bludhaven and Metropolis Vice departments on this.”

“You understand correctly.”

“And you’ve been working for BPD’s Major Crimes unit for, let me see here,” he rifled through an untidy sheaf of notes, “ah, eight months now. One would think that’s not _nearly_ enough time to gather the experience required for as high-profile a job posting as yours is, right now.”

“I’m…” Dick paused, and threw in a banal smile for good measure, “not quite sure I follow,” he said — though of course, he followed perfectly.

“You’re very young for your position, Detective,” Kent said baldly, and Dick grinned at him, instant and blinding. 

“Thanks, Mr. Kent,” he said, misunderstanding Kent on purpose. “I’m honored by the faith Bludhaven has shown in me. I’m going to work my hardest to live up to it.”

Kent smiled wryly, seeing through Dick at once. “An admirable sentiment, Detective,” he replied, amused. “I’m sure the people of Metropolis appreciate your dedication too. You’re a long way from home. How’re you finding our town?”

Dick didn’t exactly narrow his eyes, because he was too well-trained for that, masking his confusion with a long sip of black, bitter, diner coffee. That question was…. way too much of a softball to be anything but the lead-up to something genuinely dangerous. “You have a beautiful city, Mr. Kent,” he answered carefully. “I just want to do my part to make it a little safer.”

“But then,” Clark said, “perhaps it’s not such a long way from home. After all, I understand you grew up just across the Bay, isn’t that right?”

And the penny dropped. 

Dick grinned at him, easy and warm, while his insides turned to ice. “That’s right. I grew up in Gotham.”

“You were,” some more note-rifling, and now Dick was sure that _that_ was just a little affectation to make the interviewee feel a false sense of security, and boy oh _boy_ , Kent had one _hell_ of a poker face, didn't he? “Ah, here we are. You were Bruce Wayne’s ward, weren’t you? Right up until you turned eighteen, and the moment you weren’t his ward, you immediately packed up and shipped off to Bludhaven to join the police academy.”

Kent looked up at him, expectant.

“I didn’t catch a question there, Mr. Kent.”

“Why, I suppose, is my question.”

“I didn’t realize this was a personal interrogation.”

Kent immediately threw up his palms, eyes wide and shocked. “No! Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel—” He looked down and to the left, and faffed about with his notes some more. “You’re a very interesting person, Detective. Near the top of your class in the academy. An excellent shot, I’m told. Decorated twice during your time as a patrol officer. Youngest to make detective in Bludhaven PD in the last twenty years. Acting liaison for an intercity Major Crimes op. I’m trying to figure you out, a little bit.” He smiled again, charmingly shy. “This isn’t my usual thing, you know. The crime beat? They mostly get me to write the human interest pieces.”

“And they sent you to interview me? Well, _that’s_ flattering,” Dick drawled, but with half a laugh in his voice. Either Kent was pretending to peel back the layers to foster a false sense of camaraderie between them in some Machiavellian display of interpersonal manipulation, or— or— 

Or it was possible Clark Kent was just _nice._ Jesus H. Christ. Metropolis sure was some town.

But Clark chuckled too. 

“Well,” Dick said, leaning forward, “I can’t talk to you with any transparency about an ongoing investigation, Mr. Kent. I _can_ tell you Bruce Wayne was an excellent guardian, and we had a parting of ways when I came of age over my career choices. He wanted to join the family business; I didn’t, so much. I moved to Bludhaven mostly to get out of his shadow. I’d appreciate it, by the way, if you could keep that part of my history out of the papers.”

“Sure, of course.”

Dick paused. Blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I get it. And I don’t _need_ to mention it. I owe Milton one — this article is mostly a little spit-and-polish to make his taskforce look good to the top brass.”

“Milton’s working you to your strengths, huh.”

Clark mock-narrowed his eyes and Dick laughed again, spreading an arm over the top of the naugahyde bench as he sprawled back in his seat. “So,” he said, “what’s good here?”

Clark cocked his head to the side, and something of the tension in the air between them unwound and released, like a soap bubble popping. “They do a very nice pecan pie.”  
  
“Alright,” Dick said, signalling a waitress, “I definitely feel like pie.”

*

Clark and Dick exchanged contact info at the end of the interview and parted ways after a long, interesting conversation on the dangers and difficulties of dealing with organized crime, full of excellent pie and bad coffee. Very little of their conversation, Dick was sure, would end up in the actual article. But that was fine; better, in fact. Clark had been interesting to chat with, their rough start notwithstanding, and that wasn't a judgement Dick made about most people.

It was a cold, lonely afternoon in the city when they stepped out, and Dick elected to take the long way back to the precinct, along the waterfront and past the dockyards, Gotham’s skyline a dark smudge on the distant horizon. The smell of smoke hung in the air, and in his chest, there was an ache, like homesickness.

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let me give you a little advice. Stop looking for the Bat. This isn't a man on whose radar you want to be.”

ii. Clark.

“Hey,” Jenny called out, “are you guys watching this?”

On the Planet’s TV screen, the news cameras panned across Heroes Park, to the Superman statue. A man in a wheelchair was being apprehended, and someone was speaking, but all Clark could see was graffiti paint smeared on his hands, bright red.

“I work for Bruce Wayne!” he screamed, as he was dragged away. “I work for Bruce Wayne!”

Clark could feel Lois’ eyes on him. He didn’t turn, collapsing back into his cubicle chair, which was when he realized his phone was ringing.

“Clark Kent,” he said numbly. “Daily Planet.” His eyes were still fixed on the TV screen.

“Clark! This is Brenda Shettrick, from the Met PD Public Relations Depart—”

“Brenda, hi,” Clark said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “We met at the, wasn’t it the Policeman’s Ball, last month?”

“You remembered,” Brenda replies, warm, easily charmed.

“‘Course I did. How’ve you been?”

“Well, right now, I’m excellent, Clark. There’s been a break in the Baresi case. They’re expecting to make an arrest within the hour.”

“Really? Already?”

“Our boys in blue work fast.”

Evidently.

And then Shettrick added, “I want you to break it.”

“Really,” Clark said.

Shettrick chuckled. “Really, princess. I can get you fifteen minutes with the Captain once the warrant’s gone through, how’s that sound?”

Which is Clark’s cue to make his thank yous and yet, instead, the stupid-ass thing that comes out of his mouth is, “No.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“I mean, I’m happy to break the news, and I’m flattered you thought of me, but— But I think I’d prefer interviewing the new kid. The Bludhaven liaison?”

“This is a Metropolis collar, Clark,” Shettrick said warningly.

“As it should be,” Clark rushed to add. “I just…” He glanced back up at the TV. The camera had zoomed in on the statue. FALSE GOD, screamed the paint, and it felt like the temperature in the room had just dropped a couple degrees. “I think it would be a more interesting angle. I can bring in a photog — Grayson would look good on camera.”

“Well,” Shettrick said, consideringly. “Now there’s an idea.”

*

  
Grayson was already watching him when Clark picked him out from amongst the milling crowds at the precinct. The bullpen was in a state of barely controlled uproar, and Grayson said, “Something died in the vending machine last weekend, so the break room’s out. We can do this in one of the interrogation rooms?”

Clark shook his head. Too adversarial. “The roof?”

Grayson regarded him curiously for a beat — and then, “Sure,” he replied, grabbing his jacket from off the back of his chair, and gesturing at Clark to lead the way.

“Brenda tells me you requested me for this interview.”

“Yeah, well. Milton kind of hates me,” Clark demurred.

“Sure, but that…” Grayson’s eyes were a very pale, electric blue, and they were focused entirely on Clark, and there was something about his gaze… ‘A piercing stare,’ is how it would have been described in any piece of third-rate fiction; Clark had read that phrase a thousand times without quite appreciating it, but he understood now. It was like the insides of his mind were being cut through with a gentle, excoriating knife and he couldn’t do anything but let it happen. Jesus. Who was this kid? “But that’s not why you asked for me,” Grayson finished softly.

“No, I—” Clark paused. Looked out at Metropolis, the scudded grey clouds, the silvery peaks of its glittering skyline, and all of it, familiar and lovely and his. “Look. You’re a cop,” he said abruptly.

Grayson’s mouth hitched in half a smile. “So they tell me.”

“Have you worked with one of them? The capes?”

Grayson’s eyebrow popped. “The capes?”

“The, you know. The vigilantes. I’ve been looking into the Gotham Bat—”

“Oh, have you.”

“—and he seems to have been operational for at least the majority of your childhood in Gotham, and now I’m hearing chatter about someone operating out of Bludhaven too, and I just. Do you work with him? With your local— whatever?”

Grayson paused a beat. “You know, this doesn’t really strike me as a me-specific question. Metropolis has its own cape, don’t they? Your paper won’t shut up about the guy, and the local PD have been happy to admit they have a pro-Superman stance—”

“Superman’s different! He operates openly! Without subterfuge! Look, you grew up in Gotham, and the Bat was operational even then, you have got to have formed some kind of opinion on— Look,” Clark said, “we’re off the record. I swear.”

Grayson smiled then, thinly, a little meanly. “Which is why you want to know about my childhood in Wayne Manor?”

“That’s not what this is about!”

“Because I’ll tell you right fucking now, Kent,” and Grayson’s voice had dropped half an octave, and turned icy cold, “if you take the words out of my mouth and publish a word against Bruce… I’m not a forgiving man. And I can find out where you live.”

“That’s not— Look, I can’t even begin to imagine what you went through as a child, and I’m glad Mr. Wayne found you and took you in, but outside of his position as a member of the fucking plutocracy, I don’t care about him! I— I swear this is. I want to understand how it is that the Bat has the GCPD on his— I just want to understand.”

“Metropolis, believe me when I tell you, you’re out of your fucking depth,” Dick said, gentle as he could make it. “Let me give you a little advice. Stop looking for the Bat. This isn’t a man on whose radar you want to be.”

“The cops are working with him! And he’s branding criminals!”

And the color went right out of Grayson’s face. “He’s— what?”

Clark felt a blinding rush of relief, then, that someone else, that a badge, could experience the same kind of mute horror he had experienced when he’d first read that terrible Gazette headline. “He’s branding them. Burning his mark into their skin. Seventeen, I don’t know, eighteen, so far? And still— Still the GCPD won’t stop working with him. I don’t— Do you understand it. Because I don’t. I don’t—” He broke off, angry, shaken.

Grayson looked away. He gripped the balcony’s balustrade for a long time, breathing slow and deep. Clark could hear his heartbeat, pounding over the roar of the autumn wind. When he spoke, his voice was even and low. “Ask me about the Baresi case.”

“Gray—”

“Ask me,” Grayson said chillingly, “about the Baresi case.”

And that was the end of that.

*


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You talked to my son,” Wayne said flatly. “About the Batman.”

He recognizes Wayne, standing in the press cordon outside Luthor’s house, somehow younger than Clark had imagined him, and taller, too, broader, an unsettling strength to his presence that burns all the moisture out of his throat. 

When he manages to corner him later, his voice comes out — strangely informal, enough that when he says, “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?” that Wayne actually turns around, dark eyes looking him over with an almost perfunctory kind of appreciation. 

“Clark Kent,” he says, sounding nothing like a reporter should. But he’s looking at Wayne, in his gorgeously cut suit, and the soft brush of grey at his temples, extending a hand and feeling the warm, rough rasp of callus as Wayne slides his palm against his own, something shivering in his gut. 

He had looked up Richard Grayson after the interview, and that had been a direct line to Bruce Wayne, bright, overexposed pap shots from the early 90s, a greyed out picture of Wayne on the Gotham courthouse steps, Grayson a tiny huddled form in his arms, nine years old at the latest, his small, pale face staring out at the sea of photographers, drowning in Wayne’s borrowed suit jacket. Wayne’s hand had been secure against Grayson’s back, head ducked in against the rushing cameras, and some little ache in his chest had made him wonder at that impossibility, at two orphaned boys finding each other like that. Whatever else had happened, Clark had seen the look in Grayson’s eyes, when he spoke about Wayne. Whatever else may have come between them, that was the face of a child who had been loved.

So he said, “Excuse me, Mr. Wayne?” all easy and overfamiliar, and thanked every god he couldn’t blush when Wayne looked him over like — like that.

“I—” Clark paused, and chuckled. “Sorry, I’m not usually this—” He gestured vaguely at himself. 

“Oh, why not,” Wayne murmured, all innuendo, like he was saying, _I like you this way just fine._

“I just— I met your— your former ward, just a couple days ago, actually.”

Wayne’s brow collapsed into a frown. “My ward.”

“Yes, ah,” Clark’s smile faltered, “Detective Grayson?”

“You’re from Bludhaven,” Wayne concluded. The warmth had evaporated from his face, turning it harsh, forbidding, unreadable.

“No, I— I’m with Daily Planet. I’m a reporter. He’s…” 

Clark paused. 

_Oh damn it all,_ he thought to himself. _Idiot. You idiot. Grayson said they’d parted ways, hadn’t he?_

And then, possibly more gently than he should have done, he added, “He’s here, in town. In Metropolis. He’s liaising with local PD on the Baresi human trafficking case.” Wayne was still quiet, so he added, “We spoke of you, briefly. All good things, I promise.”

And then he heard it, a voice that came from Wayne but was— not Wayne, saying, “A reply, anytime you like, Master Bruce.” An earpiece? But he couldn’t see—

But Wayne was saying, “How kind of you to let me know, Mr. Kent. Now, if you don't mind—”

“We also talked about the Bat vigilante.”

“You talked to my son,” Wayne said flatly. “About the Batman.”

Clark paused. “Ye- _es?_ ” he replied, hesitance curling his voice up at the end. “Would you like to add your thoughts?”

Wayne huffed a sardonic laugh. “Not particularly,” he began to say, but Clark could see a brush-off coming down from a mile away, and he interrupted sharply.

“Civil liberties have been trampled upon in your city. Good people are living in—”

“You maybe want to _watch_ it, son,” Wayne said, with that smooth, cutting Brahmin delivery, “when you talk about the violation of civil liberties, while your city allows a seemingly omnipotent alien to operate within its bord—”

“Superman doesn’t operate in the _shadows._ Superman doesn’t _brand_ his victims,” Clark snapped, goddamned tired of having to repeat himself, and watched Wayne’s eyes turn flinty and— and _piercing._

Maybe it was a learned trait. Maybe, Clark thought wonderingly, Grayson had learned it from _Wayne._

“Superman,” Clark continued anyway, “doesn’t resort to _subterfuge_.”

And Wayne replied the same way Grayson had — with that chilling lift of his mouth. But the expression suited Wayne better, it fit the cynical, sharp lines of his face like a tailored glove, and Clark felt that look shiver right through him, like fingers running down the length of spine, a shock of heat. 

“Doesn’t he?” Wayne murmured, silken and low. “How do _you_ know? How can any of us know if we are safe from him? How do you know he can’t listen to us even now? Is any creature hidden from his sight? Or are we, we all,” and his voice dropped, soft, a low roll, “naked and exposed to the eyes of him, to whom we must give account.”

Heat thrummed under his skin, and the words had their effect. _Naked and exposed to the eyes of him,_ and Clark was thinking of miles of bare skin, dappled grey in the moonlight, warm, calloused hands gripping the back of his neck, bending him into quiet, desperate submission — but if there had ever been a time not to lose his cool, _now,_ it was now, and so he looked Wayne in the eye, and from the shreds of his throat, he managed to say, “Hebrews, 4:13.”

Wayne smiled at him again; again that lazy, slow lift of his mouth, that made him want to swallow and look away. He didn’t. “You paid attention in Sunday school,” Wayne said, sounding pleased.

“You’re calling him a— a god.”

_FALSE GOD—  
_ _red ink on metal, dripping like blood—  
_ _I work for Bruce Wayne!_

Clark shivered. 

“No,” Wayne said, with smooth, low-pitched delivery, that made him think of dark rooms, and bare skin, sweat and urgency, that voice rasping against his ear. “Just beautiful, and distracting. And dangerous.”  
  
And Clark thought: Bruce Wayne could be all those things too.

*

When his phone rang next week at work, and Grayson’s ID flashed, Clark — took a whole second to process what was happening. He’d gotten back from Mexico well past three, and barely managed to crash for four full hours before he had to head back into work.

“Grayson,” he said, when he took the call, “hi, look—”

“Are you stalking us?”

The ‘us’ struck Clark — surprising, that when he felt threatened, Grayson thought of himself and Wayne as a single unit. A plural. 

“I didn’t even know he was going to be there!” he rushed to say, and Grayson snorted.

“There’s a likely story.”

“But— I— Look, I’m _sorry_ I brought you up to him, but I—”

_“You brought me up to Bruce?!”_

Clark gulped. “Um.”

The detective exhaled angrily. “He wants to— to have _dinner,_ ” Grayson spat. 

“Isn’t…” Clark hesitated. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

“We’re off the record?” 

“Yeah! Of course, yes, I would never— Yes. We’re off.”

“Well then, it’s gonna be fucking excruciating,” Grayson snapped. A beat and he added, “You’re coming with me.”

“I— _what?”_

“He’ll be less of a complete bastard if there’s witnesses. Probably.” He sighed, short and explosive. “You dropped me into this mess, Kent. You are _not_ pussying out on me now.”

“You want to bring a reporter,” Clark tried to point out, in what he felt was a very reasonable tone. “To a family dinner. What _possible_ reason are you going to give—”

“Ha! Believe me, he’s not going to ask. It’s not his style.”

“Uh, that’s not what I—”

“I’ll pick up tonight at 6, shall I?”

*

Clark hung back when Grayson rang the doorbell of the penthouse. Wayne opened the door with, with an almost hoarse, “Dick,” and he stepped forward— but then he caught sight of Clark, and went marble-still, eyes narrowing as he added, “and you brought a guest.” Clark stepped cautiously forward, and recognition flickered in those eyes, and Wayne said, “ _Kent?_ ” before his gaze snapped back to Grayson, and his voice turned sulfurous with displeasure when he growled, “You brought a _reporter?_ ”

It was probably a bad sign, wasn’t it, that Clark found that horribly attractive? Oh god.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh believe me, if all my interrogators looked like you, I’d let myself be subjected to it a lot more often.”

iii. bruce.

He could see Kent wince a little but— jesus, god. Dick grinned at him, too many teeth, blinding, shameless. “Missed you too, Bruce,” he said, sotto voce, elbowing past him and into the penthouse, whistling softly. “Nice digs, dude.”

Bruce sighed. “Don’t call me dude,” he muttered, reflexive. Kent was still at the doorstep, looking seven kinds of uncomfortable. Which was some kind of mark in his favour, but Bruce wasn’t in a favourable mood tonight, never mind how blue those eyes were.

“Managed to finagle an invite, did you?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms.

“Oh, god,” Kent said, “no, Mr. Wayne, I— He asked me to— I would _never,”_ with such unbearable sincerity that Bruce laughed despite himself, shook his head. He looked over his shoulder to where, yep, Dick had tossed his jacket over the back of a sofa, and something in his chest was compressing almost painfully. 

“Well,” he said, turning back to their guest and moving aside, “you might as well come in, son,” just to watch Kent’s lips curve in that shy, little-boy smile, the way his eyes went down and to the left, the set of him all pleased and warm and very, _very_ nice, and in some cool, distant part of his mind, he thought to himself, “ _Alright, Robin. Well played.”_

*

Bruce took Kent’s coat, and led him through the sitting room into the kitchen— and found that he’d lost Kent somewhere along the way. He poked his head into the kitchen, where Dick was about to taste the pasta sauce directly.

“Don’t,” he barked, and Dick flailed with predictable melodrama, before setting aside the ladle, unlicked. Bruce backtracked to the gallery, and found Kent at the bank of windows, floor-to-ceiling, over a breathtaking vista of Metropolis’ nighttime skyline.

He must have heard Bruce arrive, because he looked away, and said, “Sorry, I was—” He gestured outside. “This is some view, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce grinned. It was just too easy. “Yes,” he murmured, easy and low. “It is. You’re wasting valuable interrogation minutes here, Kent. The food’s in the other room.”

Kent huffed. “Mr. _Wayne,_ I _told_ you—” he began pissily, and Bruce just laughed. 

“Oh believe me, if all my interrogators looked like you, I’d let myself be subjected to it a lot more often.” He let his palm spread flat and wide across the small of Kent’s back, to watch the little flutter of his eyes. “Come on, before Dick does unholy things to dinner. How do you feel about pappardelle al cinghiale?”

“Oh, that’s, that sounds. Delicious,” he stammered.

“Fantastic,” he said, just as Dick joined them, a wine cork flashing silver as he spun it between his fingers, two bottles of red gently clinking together in his other hand. 

“Nebbiolo?” he said to Dick, picking them carefully out of his hand and opening the first.

“Goes well with the boar,” Dick said, shrugging.

“Well chosen,” he said, and didn’t look up when that pleased, self-conscious smile flickered on the kid’s face. “Let it breathe,” he murmured, bumping Dick’s hand out of the way when he made to pour, and then, a little wryly, asked, “ _Two_ bottles?”

“You think we won’t need it?”

Bruce looked up, when Kent had evidently decided to make himself at home, stirring the pasta sauce. He had shed his coat over one of the chairs at the kitchen table, and even the eye-searing plaid he was wearing underneath couldn’t detract from the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp narrowing of his waist, the way his pants clung to—

“Yeah,” Bruce said. “Alright, fair enough,” and then glugged out a healthy amount of red into his waiting, empty glass.


	5. Chapter 5

iv. Clark.

Dinner was…. easy, somehow. 

Grayson mentioned the Baresi case, and that was an easy launching point for him and Clark, to swap horror stories about Metropolis and Bludhaven. Wayne would interject at odd moments with an idle comment that would pull Grayson into a tangent about some old story about Gotham, the Falcones grip on everything west of Crime Alley, about the genuinely fucking bizarre parade of supervillains that seemed to haunt Gotham, even not counting the Joker — Oswald Cobblepot and Art Schivel, the Drs. Isley and Quinn. 

But mostly he seemed content to listen, and pick at his food, and sip his wine, radiating a solid, unshakeable kind of pleasure that filled up the whole room. 

Clark was polishing off his third helping of pasta, picking out the delicious little nuggets of pomegranate seeds and blue cheese from the salad, when Grayson’s phone rang.

“Sorry,” he said, getting up at once. “Have to take this.”

He strode out of the room, all soundless, leonine grace, and Clark had the sudden sense that this was a man who could be lethal in a fight. Amazing, how well camouflaged that had been until just now. 

He turned back to Bruce. Probably, now was the moment to feel uncomfortable again — but it was hard to pull on that feeling, full of excellent food and what was, for all he knew, a thousand dollar bottle of wine. 

“Mr. Wayne,” he said quietly, “I meant to say. I do apologize for this. I know I’m intruding. But he asked, and I… Well, I suppose I could have said no, but I…”

“Alright,” Wayne chuckled, “I’m going to stop you right there, son. I probably ought to be thanking you. Dick and I’ve both been… a lot better behaved than I suspect we would have, in the absence of company.”

“Oh,” Clark replied, a little stunned at that rush of honesty. More and more, Bruce Wayne was starting to strike him as the sort of person who invited confidences — but didn’t volunteer them. Ever.

Dick rushed into the kitchen just then, a harried look on his face. He grabbed his wallet from off the table, and then went over to the sink to fill up a glass of water. 

“You have to leave,” Wayne concluded, without prompting. 

Dick grimaced. “Something's come up.” He looked to Clark. “Stay near your phone, will ya? If there’s news, I’ll make it so that you can be the one to break it.”  
  
“Wow, really? You can do that?”

Dick flashed a quicksilver smile his way, Hollywood-bright. “I got my ways. See you around.” He nodded at Wayne. “Bruce.”

“Mm.”

“What, no ‘be careful’?” Dick teased, jacket over a shoulder.

Bruce just arched a dark, sardonic eyebrow at him, and it must have been some kind of an in-joke, a family thing — because Dick took one look at him, and burst into laughter, as he walked away.

*

For the first time that evening, a quiet descended over the room — and still, it wasn’t uncomfortable. “This was,” he smiled ruefully and shook his head, “surprisingly excellent, Mr. Wayne. My compliments to the chef.”

“Thanks,” Wayne said, bland as anything, and Clark— paused.

“Wait,” he said slowly, as he realized, “...you made this? All this?”

Wayne shrugged delicately. Clark’s jaw dropped a little, and he grinned then, sharksome, with too many teeth. 

“You _cook_ too?” Clark said, and then immediately snapped his stupid mouth shut because if _that_ hadn’t been telling— Damn it.

But Wayne’s smile changed, warmed — a smile that crinkled up the corners of his tired, arresting eyes, and Clark forgot to breathe. “I’m glad you liked it. Dick was always partial to Italian, so.”

Clark smiled, then, too soft, helplessly charmed. And in some idiotic burst of honesty, he said, “He misses you too, you know.”

Wayne didn’t miss a beat, cocking his head to the side. “Oh? He told you this?”

“He didn’t have to,” Clark said. He curled his fingers around the fine stem of his wine-glass, lazily swirling the last of the red. “It’s what sons do. We grow up, and we move away, and… and deep down, we keep wondering if our father is proud. Would be proud.” He shut his eyes, against the sudden burn of tears, a hot tight fist squeezing his throat. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I’m— Should have gone easy on the drink, probably.”

“Clark,” Wayne said, and Clark looked up. “Son,” he said in that whiskey-warm voice, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clark said, quiet, suddenly exhausted. “My dad… He. Ah.” He scrubbed his face, and rolled his shoulders a little, to ease out the tension. “He passed away, last year. An accident on the— I grew up on a farm, did I mention?”

Wayne shook his head.

“Well, Kansas farmboy, now you know, I guess. Pa was getting on in years, and there was. He fell off a ladder. I should have— I was right _there,_ and I—” He looked up at Wayne, urgency burning through him all of a sudden, and words tripped off his tongue before he could consider them at all: “You should— He misses you, and he loves you. Idolizes you. And you never know how much time you’ve got left, and you should— Before— Before it’s too—”

And then it caught up with him: who he was talking to, what he was saying, and he stopped. “Sorry,” he said, into the ensuing quiet. “You’ve been so, you know, about everything, and here I am, dumping all my shit on— God. I’m— I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Please don’t listen to me.”

“Clark,” he said again, and Clark’s eyes were drawn to him once more, and Wayne smiled, wry, a little sad. “It’s alright. You’re… not wrong. Believe me, it’s nothing I haven’t thought myself.”

“Oh,” Clark said, and then smiled back too, hesitant, shy, and it was high school all over again, and the QB wanted to be his friend, and he was the tongue-tied idiot who couldn’t remember how to string whole words together. “Um.”

“You’ll stay for coffee and dessert?” Wayne asked, and Clark didn’t know to say anything other than, “Yes. Of course, yes.”


	6. Chapter 6

Dessert had turned out to be a verrine tiramisu from one of those ridiculous, bougie patisseries on Clinton. Clark had to hold back a moan at his first bite, all creamy mascarpone and buttery, rich biscuit, the smooth roll of espresso threaded all through it. When he opened his eyes, Wayne was watching him, that subtle glitter of amusement in his eyes, sharp lines of blue light casting across his face. 

They’d relocated to the gallery, with a shared plate and a couple of delicate little dessert forks, steaming mugs of Arabica topped with cream and nutmeg. The air was near icy cool, but it was still enough even this high to be tolerable. Pleasant. 

“Good?” Wayne asked him.

“Delicious,” Clark told him, hoarse, feeling a little bit brave. 

Wayne’s mouth curled in that secretive smirk, and his thumb came up to Clark’s mouth, dragging against a tiny smear of espresso cream, dragging until his lips part and his breath shuddered out, hot, shaken. Wayne licked the cream off of his thumb. “Hm. I think I might have to agree.”

Wayne picked the coffee mug out of his hand and set it aside. “By the by,” he said, and Clark could barely hear him over the pounding of his own heart, “you should probably call me Bruce, after this.”

And then he curled one hand around Clark’s waist, closing the distance between them — tall, Clark thought, dazedly, _Bruce_ was taller than him — leaned down, and brushed his lips against Clark’s wet, waiting mouth.

*

v. bruce. 

Clark sighed into his mouth like he’d been waiting for this, hands sliding against Bruce’s chest, curling into his shirtfront. Bruce noted these things, in the last little island of rationality left in his brain, the way the air was cold on his body, everywhere except where he was pressed to Clark, the brush of his thigh, the clutch of a hand on his hip, the sharp exhale of warm air ghosting along his cheek. 

He pulled away, tried to grasp at some sense of panic because surely, surely some farmboy reporter from Kansas shouldn’t have been able to do _this,_ to _him_ — 

But Clark looked shaken too, and something about that was intensely comforting. “Bruce,” he whispered, that soft wet mouth, and Bruce dipped in close again, finding welcome opening heat, pinning Clark to the railing so he could crush a hand against his nape, hold him still and yielding, fuck the beautiful lush heat of his mouth, while Clark moaned and trembled, the groins slotting together like puzzle pieces, and Bruce’s cock rubbed hungrily against the bulge of Clark’s pants, identical groans burning into each others’ mouths. 

He could taste wine and dinner, the bitter richness from the coffee, and he ate at it, licked out the sweetness of that single bite of tiramisu, but Clark was still sweet, like it was sunk into his blood and skin and his tongue. 

“Jesus,” he muttered, feeling staggered, when he pulled away to breathe, and Clark dragged his hot mouth along the line of his jaw, the straining tendon of his throat. 

He felt the vibration of Clark’s laugh against his chest, and Clark looked up at him, kiss-reddened mouth curved in a smile, eyes dark and unfathomable, lovely, and something wrenched in him. Bruce hadn’t planned for this — hadn’t planned for tonight. Hadn’t planned for Clark. But the bedroom would be dark, and if, if he did it right—

“Come to bed with me,” he said, and Clark swallowed, his eyes luminous, and nodded, and whispered, “Yeah. Yes.”

*

The trip to the bedroom took longer than it should have done, considering it was only down one hallway and a step to the left — but Bruce kept getting distracted by the sounds Clark made when he was pushed into a wall. About halfway there, Bruce had found that if he stroked the soft, velvety patch of skin just behind Clark’s ear, and ground his thigh into the achingly hard swell in Clark’s trousers, he would make this choked, bitten off, delicious little sound in his throat, that went straight to his cock. 

So it took a while, not that either of them were in any position to complain, but by the time they made it past the door, Clark was down to his trousers and one sock, because Bruce had beaten into himself the ability to power through a fucking crisis. 

Which this was. 

Literally. 

Jesus god.

He managed to push Clark onto the edge of the mattress, kneel on the floor between his splayed thighs, and peel off his trousers, to reveal dark blue briefs, his cock a thick, heavy line, lean in to mouth at the head, where the cotton had darkened all the way to black, with Clark’s fingers curling desperately into his shoulder, as he gasped, “Fuck, oh god, _fuck—”_ Bruce tasted salt and that blank flat feel of fabric, laundry soap, and he pushed down the briefs then, letting the elastic snap just under Clark’s balls, and _looked._

His hands moved up a calf, the curve of a knee, pushing his thighs further apart. He ghosted a kiss along the inside of his thigh, and Clark’s hands were fisted by his side, white-knuckled. “Bruce,” Clark said hoarsely, “ _do_ something, come on, _please—”_ which cut off abruptly when Bruce curled a hand like a manacle around the base of his straining cock, and squeezed, dissolving into a heated groan. 

Bruce grinned at him, quicksilver sharp, and then bent down, to take that hot, velvety head into his mouth, suck on it, lave at it until it gleamed, shiny bright in the moonlight, feel the little pulses of precome trickle against his tongue.

Clark made another abortive little sound, and his hips twitched, jerked off the mattress, like he wanted to fuck Bruce’s mouth, like he wanted it badly, like he was only holding back by sheer force of will. Well, Bruce wouldn’t mind that. Wouldn’t mind that at all. 

So he pulled off, with an obscene _pop_ , took Clark’s hand, the one that was fisted into the sheets and let it curl around the back of his head. “Do it,” he said quietly. “Fuck my mouth,” and Clark’s mouth parted. “I want you to,” and then he closed his mouth around that gorgeous thick head, inhaled sharply through his nose and swallowed the length of it down until it bumped the back of his— jesus christ, the back of his throat, and Clark nearly shouted his name, one foot skidding forward before he caught himself, his whole spine arching, turning concave around Bruce’s head, where his throat was uselessly desperately fluttering around Clark’s dick, and his own cock was hard and aching and trapped in his trousers, the zipper digging brutally into the head, and Bruce moaned around it, around Clark, clamping a hand around himself so he wouldn’t, wouldn’t fucking lose it just yet. 

“Ohgodohgodohgod,” Clark was whispering, and he was making little fucking motions that bumped Bruce’s throat, because even with permission Clark Kent was too polite to do anything more. His hands clutched at Bruce’s head, his face, his hair, “I’m gonna— you gotta— oh jesus, _fuck, nnnnnnggh,”_ Bruce felt the pulse of those heavy balls against his chin, the wetness hitting his throat as Clark came, hard, gripping, god, his ears, possibly, shivering, trembling throughout his whole body. 

Which was, of course, the exact moment his phone started to ring. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP:  
> “Jesus,” Dick muttered. “Well, aren't you two just perfect for each other.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you liked it, remember to hit kudos <3  
> Subscribe to this story to be notified when it updates.
> 
> Find me on tumblr **@[pasdecoeur](https://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com/)**


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